


Bleeding Out

by draculard



Series: Comfortween [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blood and Injury, Carrying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sauciness, Minor Character Death, Post-Bilbringi AU, Thrawn Lives AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Rukh fails to strike a paralyzing blow against Pellaeon's throat at Bilbringi.Everything changes.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon/Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Series: Comfortween [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946224
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54
Collections: Comfortween 2020





	Bleeding Out

Pellaeon turned from the viewport only when he heard a quiet, strangled breath behind him. For two disastrous seconds, he couldn’t reconcile what he saw. The calm, curious expression on Thrawn’s face as he looked down at his chest didn’t match with the knifepoint sticking through his sternum, and for a moment Pellaeon’s brain rejected the image altogether. 

He was seeing things wrong, he told himself. It wasn’t a knifepoint at all, but something else — perhaps the metal backing of a ribbon on Thrawn’s uniform, though how it could have gotten turned around like that, he couldn’t guess. His next thought — even more ridiculous — was that the knifepoint was made of rubber, that someone — not Thrawn, who looked just as bemused as he was — was playing a prank on him.

And then he saw blood soak through the white fabric of Thrawn’s uniform around the knifepoint, and he knew it was real. 

“Medic!” Pellaeon bellowed, but the hatch to the bridge was open and he could see the medical team rushing through already; someone else on the bridge must have seen what happened before he did. At the same time that Pellaeon bellowed, he heard a blaster shot on the far side of the bridge, where the stormtroopers were gathered, staring at a body on the ground. Rukh, Pellaeon realized — and he didn’t have time to process _that_ at all.

He put his hand on Thrawn’s shoulder, kept him from keeling forward, and gently stopped his hand when Thrawn tried to touch the knifepoint. 

“Sir,” he said urgently when Thrawn’s eyes started to dim. The medical team reached him just as Thrawn looked up, meeting Pellaeon’s gaze. “Sir—”

“Take charge,” Thrawn told him simply. The medics got between them, pushing Pellaeon out of the way. He watched them start cutting through Thrawn’s tunic as if they’d already discussed exactly what they were going to do. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” Thrawn said. 

So Pellaeon turned to face the viewport while behind him, the medics removed Thrawn’s tunic in full view of the bridge. He gave orders through numb lips, never quite able to distract himself from what was going on behind him.

The medics sawed off the tip of the knife just as Pellaeon ordered the _Inexorable’s_ TIEs into a Pulra swoop maneuver.

A blood-stained white tunic hit the durasteel next to Pellaeon’s feet as the Rebels struck back futilely, caught off-guard by the freighters full of hidden TIEs behind them.

He heard the sizzling of a vibroblade and a hiss of pain, smelled burning flesh as Thrawn’s wound was cauterized — first on his chest, and then again on his back. At the same time, hardly hearing himself, Pellaeon scanned the battlefield and ordered the bombers to deploy.

And he was still thinking of his next move when he felt someone touch his sleeve and heard a weary, “Thank you, Captain. You’ve done admirably. I’ll take it from here.”

He looked behind him. Thrawn sat, pale and drawn, in his command chair, with his tunic on the floor and his bare chest swathed in bandages and bacta gel. Blood had pooled in his lap, leaving his trousers stained bright red and swaths of not-quite-dry blood on the hard planes of his stomach and hips. 

“Sir,” said Pellaeon, stepping up to him. He put a hand on Thrawn’s arm, found him cold from blood loss. But Thrawn didn’t so much as glance his way.

Loud enough for the entire bridge to hear, Thrawn said, “Yaw forty degrees to port.”

And the battle began in earnest.

* * *

It was over within two hours — faster than Pellaeon expected, yet an agony to watch. Through it all, Thrawn sat quietly in his command chair, giving his orders whenever necessary in a moderated voice. He leaned forward now and then, his jaw tightening against pain, but he never closed his eyes for more than a second.

And Pellaeon, in turn, never removed his hand from Thrawn’s shoulder. He couldn’t bring himself to. He found his eyes flickering between the viewport and the bandages over Thrawn’s nearly fatal wound, the blood drying on his abdomen and turning the waistband of his trousers a rusty color. The smell of copper was thick in the air, and only seemed to grow worse as time dragged on.

But it was over now.

It was over.

He shook himself and looked down at Thrawn, slumped back against his seat for the first time since he was stabbed. Thrawn’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths; his face was calm, but lined with exhaustion.

He met Pellaeon’s gaze.

Quietly, so the rest of the bridge couldn’t hear, Thrawn said, “Help me stand.”

Pellaeon shifted his grip, running his left hand down Thrawn’s shoulder until it was pressed beneath his arm, and snaking his other hand along Thrawn’s abdomen. He lifted Thrawn off the chair, with Thrawn assisting as much as he could. There was a loud ripping sound as the coagulated blood Thrawn had been sitting in tugged at the fabric of his trousers, trying to keep him down. 

“Balanced?” Pellaeon asked him when Thrawn was on his feet. He got an absent nod in return, both of them checking to make sure Thrawn’s uniform hadn’t actually torn. “Can you walk?” Pellaeon asked, keeping Thrawn steady.

“Surprisingly, the wound in my chest has not affected my legs,” Thrawn said dryly. He put his hand on Pellaeon’s forearm, leaning on him somewhat as he stepped away from the command chair where he’d almost been killed. To any observers on the bridge crew, it would look like Thrawn was walking almost without aid, but Pellaeon could feel the tight, vice-like grip of Thrawn’s fingers on his arm. 

“Medbay?” Pellaeon asked him, taking small, slow steps toward the hatch.

Thrawn nodded. They made their way off the command walkway at a snail’s pace, with Thrawn’s face a grim, pale mask. He didn’t wince even once as they walked, and he made no sound of pain, but his lips were a thin line and his jaw was tight.

When the hatch had closed behind them, leaving them alone in the hall, Thrawn kept walking but squeezed Pellaeon’s arm. His eyes were fixed on the passageway ahead of them as he murmured, “Perhaps you should call for a stretcher.”

Pellaeon stopped walking at once, putting both hands on Thrawn’s shoulders to keep him standing. “You can’t walk any farther?” he asked him, with no judgment in his voice.

“No,” said Thrawn simply, without ego. He leaned into Pellaeon’s touch. “I think perhaps the blood loss…”

Pellaeon studied his face, waiting for Thrawn to continue. But Thrawn only tipped his head forward and leaned it against Pellaeon’s shoulder instead.

“Forgive me,” he said, voice muffled and toneless. “I’m feeling faint. If you’ll just…”

Pellaeon waited, but Thrawn didn’t finish the sentence. He let Thrawn rest against him for a moment, trying to hide the sense of alarm tingling through his chest.

“Sir?” he said.

He got a faint hum of acknowledgment from Thrawn.

“I’m going to pick you up, if that’s alright,” Pellaeon told him. “We’re not far from the sick bay. It’ll be faster if I just carry you than to wait for a stretcher.”

“Oh,” said Thrawn with his face hidden against Pellaeon’s shoulder, “spare me my dignity, Gilad.”

But he said it without an ounce of seriousness, so Pellaeon didn’t listen. He bent down, hooking his arm beneath Thrawn’s knees, and picked Thrawn up with a smoothness and ease that surprised even himself. Thrawn shifted against him without complaint or even a change in expression, wrapping one arm around Pellaeon’s shoulders and pressing himself close to Pellaeon’s chest. 

He was just tall enough to make this awkward, Pellaeon thought, trying to ignore the fact that Thrawn’s eyes were currently boring into his own. He set off down the passageway at a much brisker clip, trying to ignore the scent of blood. 

It was only when they reached the door of the sick bay that Thrawn said, quite neutrally, “You could have carried me on your back, Gilad.”

Pellaeon huffed out a sigh of exasperation. He nodded at the medics as he entered, carrying Thrawn straight to the nearest gurney and setting him down there as gently as he could. As the medics rushed in again — swarming forward to take Thrawn’s vitals and check on his wounds — Pellaeon stepped back, preparing to leave.

He was stopped by Thrawn’s voice, soft and commanding.

“Stay,” Thrawn said. Then, when Pellaeon turned to raise his eyebrows at him, he wrinkled his nose in a wry smile. “I don’t intend to sleep here,” he said lightly, even as the medics pulled his bandages off and exposed his cauterized wound. “I’ll need someone to carry me back.”

Incorrigible, Pellaeon thought. If it weren’t for the strain in Thrawn’s eyes, he’d think he was almost enjoying this.

Still, Pellaeon didn’t hesitate to pull up a chair.

* * *

The medics asked Thrawn if he wanted a curtain drawn for privacy, but he declined at once, meaning Pellaeon got a full show when the wound was dressed again and the medics insisted Thrawn change out of his blood-stained trousers. They handed Thrawn a pair of medbay scrubs to change into; he thanked them politely, waited for them to leave, glanced at the curtain he’d earlier declined.

“Pull that, will you?” he said to Pellaeon.

Pellaeon did so, stepping outside and starting to tug the curtain shut. Immediately, Thrawn stopped him again, sounding amused.

“No, with you inside. I need help changing.”

Pellaeon’s throat tightened. Heart thudding in his chest, he stepped back inside the ring and pulled the curtain around Thrawn’s hospital bed. Thrawn swung his legs over the side of the bed while he did so, only standing when Pellaeon was done.

They worked economically, without shyness. Thrawn unfastened his uniform trousers and pulled them down himself, taking his blood-soaked underwear down at the same time. When he was done he sat heavily on the edge of the bed again, and Pellaeon stepped forward, gently lifting Thrawn’s feet and pulling off his boots and socks. With those discarded, he pulled the once-white trousers off the rest of the way and threw them directly into the garbage chute. 

Thrawn lounged on the bed before him leaning on his elbows, unashamed of his nakedness or the areas of where blood had dried on his skin. He sat up when Pellaeon looked at him, unfolding the thin shirt the medics had given him. 

He didn’t ask for assistance with the shirt; Pellaeon helped him anyway, unable to stop himself. He guided Thrawn’s arms through the sleeves, noting the way he winced when his arms were extended — because it pulled at the chest wound, Pellaeon supposed. He did up the snaps on the shirtfront quickly, watching the bandages and bloody skin disappear, and then he helped Thrawn into his trousers with the same quiet focus.

Neither of them spoke a word. When Pellaeon pulled the curtain back, the chief medic was waiting for them. 

“You’re free to go to your quarters, if you like, sir,” he said to Thrawn. “Captain Pellaeon, will you see to it that he gets there safely?”

Pellaeon caught Thrawn’s eye and gave the medic a brief, half-ironic nod. He waited until the medic had left to face Thrawn again — Thrawn, who looked so different, so much softer, wearing hospital pajamas, with his hair in disarray. Thrawn met his eyes and raised an eyebrow — and for once, Pellaeon warranted, Thrawn couldn’t guess what he was thinking.

He raised an eyebrow back at him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” said Thrawn, and — rather ambitiously — he sprang to his feet, only to lose his balance and stagger until Pellaeon caught his arms.

With a sigh, Pellaeon mentally calculated how far Thrawn’s quarters were from the medbay and, resigning himself to a long walk, swept Thrawn off his feet.

* * *

They walked in comfortable silence, both too weary to discuss the battle — or the assassination attempt — or what came next. It was past midnight on the ship’s clock as Pellaeon made his way out of the medbay, and the passageways were almost deserted. But of course, they weren’t entirely empty. They never were, on a Star Destroyer. And every time they saw someone coming toward them down the hall, Thrawn froze for a moment, then shifted against Pellaeon until he looked unconscious, and hid his face in Pellaeon’s chest. 

He didn’t address it; it gave him a thrill of pleasure to know that it embarrassed Thrawn when the crew members saw him being carried, but it _didn’t_ embarrass him to ask Pellaeon for help. By the time they reached his quarters, Thrawn had feigned sleep in front of dozens of crewers, and each time they passed he lifted his head with an imperious, dignified look on his face, his cheeks heated, silently daring Pellaeon to acknowledge what he'd done.

Pellaeon shook his head mentally and opened the door to Thrawn’s quarters. It was the first time he’d ever been able to enter, he realized, without Rukh barring the way. Thrawn went still in his arms as they crossed the threshold, his face tightening in cold fury, and Pellaeon knew he was thinking the same thing. 

Without a word, he carried Thrawn to his bed and sat on the edge of it, depositing Thrawn on the mattress as gently as he could. He wasn’t surprised when Thrawn refused to simply lie down. He sat up with his weight on his palms and a look of quiet disgust on his face, his legs still halfway in Pellaeon’s lap. 

“Help me to the refresher,” he said, pulling his hospital shirt away from his collar and looking down at his wound. “I want to clean this off before I retire for the night.”

Pellaeon winced. “The blood?” he asked, then immediately regretted the question. Of course the blood. He stood, putting one cautionary hand on Thrawn’s shoulder to keep him from standing, too. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

In the fresher, he gathered each of Thrawn’s hand towels and soaked them beneath the faucet, filling a basin of water at the same time. He placed a good helping of soap at the bottom of the basin first and watched it froth into suds as warm water poured down on top of it. Tucking another, dry towel under his arm, he carried the whole ensemble back out to Thrawn’s quarters.

Where he found Thrawn stretched out in an uncomfortable-looking position, trying to accommodate his wound while simultaneously keying his holoprojector to display a series of softsculpts. 

Pellaeon decided not to comment. He set the basin on Thrawn’s bedside table and sat on the mattress next to him, his thigh bumping against Thrawn’s hip. When Thrawn only continued selecting art holos, Pellaeon undid the snaps on the Grand Admiral’s shirtfront himself. 

“I’m surprised they didn’t give you a blood transfusion,” he said, easing Thrawn’s shirt open.

“They did,” Thrawn said. He set his holoprojector aside, now studying Pellaeon’s every move intensely. “While you were observing the Pulra maneuver.”

Pellaeon wrung the water out of one of the hand towels and unfolded it, draping it over his palm. He rested it against Thrawn’s collar bones, above the bandages, where small specks of blood had landed when the medics were sawing off the knifepoint.

“I wouldn’t think you’d take to human blood,” Pellaeon commented. He rubbed the edge of his thumb against Thrawn’s skin through the hand towel, slowly eradicating the traces of blood left behind. 

“I wouldn’t,” said Thrawn with a hint of amusement. “It was my own blood. They keep it in storage.”

Pellaeon nodded somewhat sheepishly at that. He soaked the hand towel again, this time running it gently over Thrawn’s abs, erasing the streaks of blood there one centimeter at a time. He could feel Thrawn’s breathing beneath his hand, slow and measured and careful, as if he were doing his best to stay even. 

Pellaeon ran the cloth up and down the hard planes of Thrawn’s stomach, intensely aware of Thrawn’s eyes on him the entire time. When the dried blood had softened a little and transferred to the hand towel, he dunked it into the basin again and picked up the other one, which was still folded over the edge.

His eyes darted down to Thrawn’s hip bones. Silently, noticing the look, Thrawn shifted onto his back and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down past his half-hard cock and looking up at Pellaeon expectantly. There was dried blood in the crook of Thrawn’s hips and on his thighs, and if it weren’t for the obvious arousal between his legs and the too-innocent look in his eyes, Pellaeon would almost think he really did just need help cleaning. 

He was _definitely_ taking advantage of that injury, Pellaeon decided. 


End file.
